Always Me
by adrift
Summary: “Have you ever been in love, Wilson? The heart stopping, selfless, can’t live without you kind of love?” [WilsonCam]
1. Chapter 1

**Always Me  
**by adrift for fanfiction (dot) net

"_Death ends a life, not a relationship_."  
(--Robert Benchley)

* * *

A/N: Multi-chapter, based on Cameron and her history. Written in first person from Cam's POV. The pairing will either be Cam/House or Cam/Wilson, I haven't decided yet. Revamped, thanks to some constructive criticism. Cameron's godmother dies.

* * *

Wilma Jones is going to die today. She is forty-three years old.

"Don't cry, dear."

She pats my arm, soothes me, as I struggle to hold back my tears. Her husband stands beside me, his hand resting on my lab-coated shoulder. I shudder as she coughs deeply, her chest besieged with the need for air. When she finally catches her breath, she looks up to her husband and nods. My shoulder is chilled when he removes his hand to squeeze his wife's frail one. With a look over his shoulder, he leaves. I'm alone with her.

Small cell lung cancer; it's a killer.

My knees feel week and I allow myself to collapse into the chair beneath me. My head rests in my hands, elbows on my knees, and I peer at Wilma through my linked fingers. She is smiling at me, and her dark brown eyes full of love make me want to cry harder. She reaches out a hand to me, and I manage get control of myself and sit up to grasp it tightly between my own. When she speaks, her voice is raspy and low.

"Allison, I'm going to die."

I swallow thickly, nodding as tears fill my eyes again, threatening to spill over. She squeezes my hand and continues.

"You doctors, all of you, have the God complex. You think you can fix everybody. You can't. Sometimes--"

She is seized with another fit of coughing.

"--sometimes people aren't destined to be saved. Death is my destiny."

I try to interrupt her, try to tell her that it is my job as a doctor to save her, but she stops me.

"Don't you dare be upset about it. I'm not worth grieving over, Art will tell you that much."

I chuckle at the mention of her husband Arthur (she affectionately calls him Art), my godfather. She smiles and I follow her gaze. She watches her husband as he watches us, through the glass door of the room. Dr. Wilson is by his side, a grim look on his face.

For a moment, I curse him. I curse him because he couldn't save her. I curse him because I need somebody to blame my pain on.

And now I ask the age-old question; why _me_?Why is it my godmother laying in thebed, dying of cancer, while another patient of his smiles happily as she is released from the hospital?I want to scream at Wilson, hurt him, take out all my frustrations of the past two months on him. But it's not his fault.

I realize that I'm staring at him with malice. Wilma presses her cold fingers into my hand and I look away. The look on her face says that she knows what I'm thinking.

"Dr. Wilson is a good man. Don't blame him for what's happening to me. Don't blame yourself either."

I can't look her in the eye. I'm ashamed. We're quiet for a long time, me sitting there like a rock, her doing the comforting. I finally speak, my eyes dry.

"I'm going to miss you, no matter what you say."

She laughs lightly, the rise and fall of her chest reassuring me that there is still time for a goodbye.

"Thank you, Allison."

She drops my hand and makes a motion for her purse, on the bedside table. Pain hits her as she tries to sit up, so I take the purse and put it gently in her lap. She offers me a grateful smile. I sit quietly as she rummages among the contents, most obviously looking for something. She finds it soon and pulls it from the purse, clenched tightly in her fist.

It is a silver necklace. A small pendantdangles from the end, swinging back and forth as she hangs it from her fingers. I reach out my hand, holding it flat beneath the necklace. She drops it onto my palm, and I finger the silver charm with amazement.

"It's Guatemalan, a symbol of love. I want you to have it."

I nod my thanks, hardly trusting my voice. Reaching up with unsteady hands, I fasten the clasp and let the necklace fall softly against my neck.

"It's beautiful. Thank you."

She starts to cry. She gestures to the door, where Art is standing, and he soon is by her side. He perches on the edge of the bed and holds his wife's hand fiercely to his chest, a single tear rolling down his cheek. The end is near.

I stand from the chair on wobbly legs and back away, sensing the need for the couple to be alone. However, Art grabs my hand and gives me a look that screams for me to stay, so I do.

Amidst her muffled sobs, I catch the words 'why me?', and I wonder again about God's sense of humor.

I lean forward and wrap my arms around her frail body, as if mere physical contact will keep her in this world. She whispers something into my ear.

"Take care of Art for me, won't you?"

I nod and pull away.

With a final 'I love you' for her husband, Wilma Jones breaths her last breath.

The beeping of the heart machine rings in my ears but I make no move to turn it off. I stand there, frozen, watching as Art cries softly into his wife's cold fingers.

Suddenly the room is quiet. Dr. Wilson's voice echoes off the walls, his fingers grazing the buttons on the monitor.

"Time of death, two fifteen p.m."

Art wipes away his tears and approaches me. With a solemn look, he places both hands on my shoulders and looks me in the eye.

"She thought of you as a daughter. Thank you, Allison."

Art's strong arms wrap around my body, and it's not unnatural formy godfatherto be comforting me as I cry into his chest.


	2. Chapter 2

**Always Me  
**by adrift for fanfiction (dot) net

"_A baby is God's opinion that the world should go on_."  
(--Carl Sandburg)

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A/N: Thanks for the reviews, but I need more! I give you the next installment, so please enjoy. Oh, and the next chapter of 'Reluctance' is coming soon, don't worry.

* * *

My pager beeps while I'm eating lunch all by myself in the courtyard; a new case. I toss my uneaten apple into the trash and wipe the last remnants of tears from my eyes.

The patient is eight months pregnant and suffering from severe headaches and hallucinations.

House only takes this because he's bored (we all know it). He drills us for a diagnosis, and I am unusually quiet. He notices this.

"Dr. Cameron! Differential diagnosis?" he fixes those horrible blue eyes on me and I freeze.

"Ah…" I can't see past the tears that blur my vision.

He stares some more and I avoid his gaze, a habitual practice. When his pager goes off, I sigh inwardly. Saved by the bell, literally.

House reads the message and frowns, clipping the device back onto his belt. He jerks his head towards the door.

"Our patient's in labor," he says grimly.

* * *

Two hours later, the lifeless body of a teenage mother lies on the operating table. We never did find out what was wrong with her.

* * *

I watch through the glass window of the nursery as the baby, born one month too early, sleeps soundly in her bassinet.

The maternity ward is dark and empty, save for a few on-duty nurses. I tiptoe through the nursery door, steps light on the tile floor. Immediately the warm milky scent of babies reaches my nose. I inhale, remembering and savoring the warmth of it all.

Baby Girl Johnson is the last in the row. She looks so small, face scrunched up in sleep, the soft fluorescent light casting a soft glow over her sleeping form. A pink hat covers her head, which is already dusted with dark brown hair. Matching pink booties, too big for her premature feet, complete the picture.

My hand involuntarily reaches out to touch the curve of her rosy cheek. Baby Girl Johnson opens her eyes and looks at me, the clear blue spheres huge and round.

I stare down at her, and it's the first time in forever that I've felt so connected to another human being.

A nurse shuffles in, a guilty look on her face, as if she's interrupting something. I look up and smile in greeting, beckoning her forward. A bottle of formula is in her hand, and without her speaking, I know it's for Baby Girl Johnson.

"Would you like to feed her?" the nurse asks me.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. She hands me the bottle and leaves without a look over her shoulder. I silently praise the understanding people.

There's a rocking chair in the corner of the room. I set the bottle on the table beside it, returning for the baby. Her small body is warm against my breast, and as I settle us in the chair, she squirms in my arms.

"You're a fighter, aren't you?" I murmur.

She yawns, little mouth opening wide, and I remember how long it's been since I've held a baby. I put the bottle to her mouth and I cry.

I cry for her, motherless and alone already, so purely innocent, so perfect. I cry for another perfect baby, Baby Girl Cameron. She lived long enough to get a real name; Olivia.

* * *

The roof is my haven. I can see Princeton in the night, brightly lit. I wish I could see the stars.

I lean on the wall, head resting on my elbows, and stare across the vast city. I feel immeasurable against its size, but more often than not it's a relief to be forgotten for awhile.

Footsteps sound on the stairs and the creaking of the door follows. I know someone is behind me, but I don't turn to see who (the voice tells me).

"Allison," he says with a hint of question.

I turn my head and he steps forward beside me.

"Dr. Wilson," I reply in greeting, sticking to formality.

We're silent for a long time, simply standing side-by-side, watching as the moon rises.

"Rough day?" he asks, already knowing the answer.

"You have no idea," I say.

He sets something in front of me and turns to leave. It's a cup of coffee from Starbucks (the only Starbucks around is three blocks from the hospital). I take a sip.

He lays a hand on my shoulder, warm and strong. The briefest squeeze and it's gone, along with Wilson.

I look at my coffee, take another sip, and fling it off the roof into the night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Always Me  
**by adrift for fanfiction (dot) net

"_God's finger touched him, and he slept_."  
(--Alfred, Lord Tennyson)

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A/N: Glad you guys like this. Here's the next chapter, sorry it took so long. Please leave a review, I had fun writing this, despite the angst. I do believe Cameron's husband's name was Brian, but correct me if I'm wrong. For the purpose of this, it was. Flashbacks!

* * *

I've been to many funerals in my life. Of them all, only three have been truly personal.

My older brother's, when I was twelve, was the first. Then came my husband's, when I was twenty-four. Finally there was our daughter's, when I was twenty-five.

I'm about to add number four to the tally; Wilma's. I'm thirty-one.

It's raining when I wake up, fat drops splattering against my bedroom window. The faint glow from my alarm clock tells me that it's six fifty-five. I don't have to leave until nine.

I climb out of bed, my t-shirt hanging limply to the middle of my thighs. The bathroom isn't far, and the door creaks when I pull it shut behind me. I toss my shirt to the floor, a chill sweeping over my body. The mirror hangs above the sink, but I turn away from it when I walk by. I know what I look like. I've looked like this three times before.

The cold water of the shower hits my chest like a knife, but I don't turn the dial to hot. I step forward, slowly, until the stream soaks my hair. Wet strands plaster to my face, and I blink the drops from my eyelashes. Reaching forward, I turn the water off without even washing.

The mirror isn't steamed. I steal a glance at myself, towel wrapped around my body, and I'm tempted to shrink away. The circles under my eyes are dark, and the clear green color appears a smoky grey. I look pathetic, but right now I think it suites me.

A closet full of clothes gives me many options, but I've never really liked picking out funeral attire. Dropping the towel, I stand naked in front of the door, dripping wet hair limp against my back. Whatever I pick, they'll all look the same.

A dark grey dress peeks out at me from the back of the closet. I tug on it and it slides free into my hand. Holding it up, I don't recognize it at first. I slip it over my head and straighten the hem. It's modest enough, with long sleeves and a high neckline. Turning to look in the mirror, my eyes are drawn immediately to a red stain across the front.

* * *

_We sat at the kitchen table, silent. He said he had news, big news, bad news. I sipped wine from my glass slowly, eyes cast downwards. The ticking of the clock echoed in my ears, and when it chimed seven I had to speak._

"_Brian?" I questioned. _

_He was quiet for a moment longer, and I heard him sigh and open his mouth to speak._

"_Marry me," he said._

_Shocked, I let my hand fall to the table. Wine from my glass sloshed over the side, spilling onto the table and across my lap. _

"_What?" I asked, astounded._

_He raised his eyes from the mess I created, meeting my gaze._

"_I don't want to die alone," he said with a cracked voice. _

_It was cancer. The doctors gave him six months to live, maximum. _

_I married him because I wouldn't want to die alone either._

_

* * *

_

I peel the dress off and toss it to the floor, the folds of fabric coming to rest at my feet. Looking down, I wonder why I held onto it for so long.

* * *

A black pantsuit is the only thing in my closet that doesn't remind me of Brian. The jacket is a little too big, the pants a little too long, but it has to work. By now my hair is dry, and I pull it back into a low ponytail, not bothering to check it. I don't bother with makeup.

My breakfast consists of a bagel, sans cream cheese. It tastes bland, and sticks in my stomach. I want coffee, but I don't have the energy to make it. Instead, I drink orange juice, cringing at the ridiculously sunny logo.

By the time I leave my apartment, it's going on ten-thirty. I'm late. For a funeral. For my godmother's funeral. I'm a horrible person.

It's still raining, but the methodical swish of my windshield wipers comforts me. Ten minutes, two songs, and one near accident later, I turn into Princeton Cemetery.

It looks the same as it did six years ago. I park my car to the side, at the top of the hill. From my vantage point, I see the gathered group, huddled under dark-colored umbrellas. A small canopy is erected, around which the people stand. Wilma's casket, surrounded by flowers, rests beneath.

The rain hits my face as I climb from the car, stinging my cheeks with its chilly force. I pull my jacket tighter around my body. The hill is steep, the path gravel, and I stumble down as discreetly as possible.

When I reach the gravesite, I stand near the back. A eulogy is being delivered, and it takes me a moment to recognize the speaker. It is Dr. Wilson, dressed in a somber black suit, blonde hair curling slightly from the rain. He notices me, and his brown eyes meet mine for a split second.

I turn away, an unknown emotion broiling within me. The rain blinds me, and I walk without thinking. When I finally stop, I'm standing in front of his gravestone. Brian William Cameron, beloved husband and father.

"_Say not in grief 'he is no more', but live in thankfulness that he was."_

The downpour washes away my tears, but I'm not crying for him. I'm crying for myself. Am I selfish and cold-hearted? I feel guilty. I've let his gravestone go uncared for, the weeds overgrown. I don't bring flowers on the anniversary of his death.

I've been here once since his funeral. My gaze flickers to the small stone on my left. My daughter and my husband, both dead before their times.

I hear the crunch of shoes on gravel, then the muffled footsteps as the person leaves the path and crosses the grass towards me. I know that it's Dr. Wilson, but I don't greet him. He stands beside me and I can tell that he's reading the names on the graves.

"You were married?" _And you had a daughter?_

I nod, staring at the muddy ground. I want to talk about it. I want to let it all out. I want to break down and cry. But I don't. I can't, because I'm a horrible person.

He's quiet for a long time. Eventually I raise my head and seek out his eyes with my own, but he's not looking at me anymore. I wonder what he's thinking about.

"What are you thinking about?" I ask.

He sighs and runs a hand through his damp hair.

"I was wondering what kind of God would make a woman like you suffer," he says.

He looks at me sheepishly, as if uncomfortable with sharing his thoughts, and I give him a watery smile. He returns it, and I take two steps forward. My arms wrap around his torso, and I lay my cheek against his chest. I squeeze him in a hug, and feel him shift to hold me close.

"Thanks for the coffee," I sniff.

His hand smoothes my hair, and I feel his lips press a kiss to the top of my head.


	4. Chapter 4

**Always Me  
**by adrift for fanfiction (dot) net

"_I don't want to live - I want to love first, and live incidentally_."  
(--Fitzgerald, Zelda)

* * *

A/N: I'm back! Thanks to a burst of muse and some nice Wilson/Cam interaction, I bring you a new chapter! I think you'll enjoy this one a lot. Read on, and leave a review, please and thanks.

* * *

The rain tapers off as we stand there, embracing, for the longest time. His body is warm and solid, an anchor against my pain. I hold him tightly to me, and he continues to gently smooth my hair until I cease my crying. Finally, I lean back and look into his face. His brown eyes are kind, but the sympathy in them makes me turn away.

One of his hands, calloused and strong, raises as if to touch my face, but he hesitates and lets it fall back to his side. I can hear him sigh, and when I look at him from the corner of my eye, he's staring at me. I take a deep breath and compose myself, but refuse to look at him. Instead, I start talking.

"I've never brought flowers to his grave, not once," I say, my voice strong and cold to my ears.

He doesn't respond, and still I keep my gaze down.

"Have you ever been in love, Wilson? The heart-stopping, selfless, can't live without you kind of love?" I pause, but continue without letting him answer. "I have." I hear myself say.

I finally turn to face him, and his expression surprises me. His eyes are wistful, and I know that he has, too.

"But not with your husband," he says to me, his voice understanding.

"No," I reply, shaking my head.

We share a companionable silence, and it seems to me that we could have stood there forever if it weren't for the rumble of thunder in the distance. Apparently the rain wasn't done.

"Come on, I'll drive you home," Wilson says.

I nod, and he drapes an arm over my shoulders and leads me to his car. I don't really care that mine is still sitting at the top of the hill; Wilson offers to take me home from work until we manage to pick it up.

During the car ride, we talk about the most recent case, the one that House couldn't solve; the dead mother who leaves her premature girl without a family.

"We didn't ever find a diagnosis," I say, shaking my head.

Wilson glances over at me quickly before turning his eyes back to the road.

"You can't save everybody, you know," he replies.

I look at him sharply, tongue ready with a retort. I stop myself though, and instead reply with a sigh.

"That baby has nobody. Her mother's dead, her father hasn't even shown up yet, if he even plans on coming at all," I say with remorse.

Wilson doesn't respond, but his warm hand that comes to rest on top of mine gives me all the reassurance I need.

"Take the next right," I state calmly.

* * *

A week later, Baby Girl Johnson is thriving. It's become a habit of mine to save a couple minutes of my day for her; House would say that I'm too attached, but since she doesn't have anybody else, I figure it's okay.

It's Tuesday, about 1:00, and I take my lunch to the nursery. I'm sitting in the rocking chair, eating a turkey sandwich, when the glass door swings open.

Wilson enters, and he's followed by a young man who's unfamiliar to me. I immediately abandon my sandwich and rise, brushing crumbs from my lap. I start forward and meet the two men near Baby Girl Johnson's bassinet.

"Is this her?" the strange man questions.

Wilson nods and steps out of the way so the man can see the baby, sleeping peacefully.

"She's so small," the man says with wonder.

He touches Baby Girl Johnson on the cheek with one shaky finger, drawing deep breaths to hide his emotion.

I stand, rooted to the spot, witnessing this encounter.

"You're her… father?" I ask this man, knowing the answer.

He looks up at me, a happy smile spreading on his face.

"Yes, I'm Gary Johnson," he replies, "and I believe this is Natalie, after her mother."

Wilson makes a move to leave the nursery, but I catch his gaze as he goes through the door. There's no doubt in my mind that he did this; he found Baby Girl Johnson's father, for me. I can't move, so I just stare at his retreating back. I want so much to go after him, but there are matters to be attended to here.

"Would you like to hold her?" I ask Mr. Johnson, and when he nods I place Natalie in his arms for the first time.

* * *

I've never been a fan of tension. Wilson's car seems tiny, and the maddening silence really makes me wish that my car wasn't still sitting at the cemetery. It's raining again, and the streets are slick, so I blame Wilson's quietness on concentration.

He pulls into the parking lot at my building and leaves the engine running. We sit for a seemingly long time before I unbuckle my seatbelt and open the car door. I climb out and, turning back to face Wilson, utter a simple statement.

"Thank you."

I close the door before he gets a chance to reply. My keys jingle in my pocket, and I fish them out with a wobbly hand. Unlocked, the door swings into my apartment, but I don't step across the threshold. Instead, I about-face and walk calmly back to the car. Wilson, eyes boring a hole in the steering wheel, doesn't see me, so I rap on his window. He looks up, surprised, but I just stare at him.

It's a fact of life that things you wish would just happen fast seem to happen in slow motion. He couldn't roll the window down quick enough. The barrier between us gone, there's nothing to stop me now.

I grab the collar of his jacket, tugging his upper body towards the car door. Without missing a beat, he reaches down and unlocks his seatbelt, which allows me to pull him closer. My back is bent at an unnatural angle, and my elbows brace me as I lean my head as far into the car as it can go.

Our breath mingles, and it surprises me that I am lost in his brown eyes. We don't touch, not yet, and I lick my lips in anticipation. It's now or never.

It's me who closes the distance between us with a simple touch of my lips to his. The kiss is chaste and tender, and my nose brushes his gently. I pull back and keep my eyes locked on his lips, afraid to meet his gaze. I know he's looking at me, but I can't force myself to look back.

I want so much to kiss him again. I even dare to look up, but his eyes are closed now. I sigh, my breath on his face, and they open. We stare at each other, neither one wanting to make the next move. Finally, after a few intense seconds, Wilson reaches for me. His hand, that wonderful hand, tangles in my hair, curly from the rain, and he twirls a lock of it around his fingers. The hand comes to rest on the back of my neck, sending goose bumps down my spine.

The other hand, free to roam, traces the outline of my face. He thumbs over my eyebrows, cheekbones, jaw, lips, leaving a trail of heat that settles deep in my stomach. I haven't been touched like this for a long time, and the intensity makes me close my eyes. He pulls me to his mouth and kisses my eyelids softly. I tilt my head up and he presses his lips to mine.

There is nothing chaste about this kiss. We fight, duel, battle for control, and the winner of this frenzied game is yet to be decided. I suck his bottom lip into my mouth, and he shudders, barely managing to suppress a groan. Open-mouthed and wet, his tongue mingles with mine and I'm sure there's no better feeling in the world than kissing James Wilson.


End file.
